


Simple

by elementalv



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, due South Seekrit Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-24
Updated: 2006-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elementalv/pseuds/elementalv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mostly, Ray cooks, but sometimes, Ray cooks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple

**Author's Note:**

> Written for justbreathe80 as part of the 2006 due South Seekrit Santa fic exchange.

It’s not that I don’t like his cooking, because I do. Hell, I love it, even. What Vecchio can do with a pound of fusilli, some cheese and black olives is enough to make a grown man cry.

Not that I did, although, okay, I might have sniffled a little, but that’s because he made it for my birthday, is all, and I was feeling kind of down about turning forty-two. He made tiramisu, too, and that I _did_ cry over, because Jesus, the last time anyone made me a cake for my birthday, it was Stella, and I’d just turned seventeen, and she — never mind. The point is, he made an effort, and it hit me all at once that he actually gave a shit and wasn’t just hanging around my place for sex and beer.

So, like I said, it’s not that I don’t like his cooking, because I do. It’s just that Vecchio tends to go overboard at mealtime, and he expects me to go along with the program — which I do, most of the time. But every so often, I get a hankering for something a little less complicated and a lot more simple.

It’s why I’m standing in the kitchen with my hands in a bowl of ground round, minced onions, oatmeal, ketchup and a couple of eggs. Once all this stuff gets mixed up, I’ll put it in the oven for an hour or so, and out will come my mom’s meatloaf. Vecchio will stick his nose up at it, the way he usually does, but it’s gonna be a fight to the finish to see who gets to eat the last piece.

*****

“What’s that? Meatloaf?” Vecchio’s standing just inside the door. He had to work today, and I didn’t, so he isn’t in the best of moods right now.

“Yeah,” I say, sprawling a little more on the couch.

Vecchio wants a fight — I can tell by the look in his eyes. I might give him one, but he’ll have to try harder than that if he wants me to play _his_ game. Personally, I’d rather play _my_ game, the one that starts with my dick in his mouth, but I’m willing to be generous and let him try to talk me into a fight, seeing as how I had today off.

“Couldn’t you for once make something else?”

He’s trying to keep the bite in his voice, but it’s not working. That’s maybe because I just popped the button on my jeans, and I’m starting to move the zipper down a little. It looks like I’m gonna get him in front of me in no time flat, but Vecchio’s surprised me before, so I’m not gonna count my chickens before the Colonel gets them.

I raise my eyebrows and ask kind of casually, “Like what?”

My zipper’s all the way down, and Vecchio’s got his eyes trained on my crotch, just the way I like ‘em. They bug out a little when he sees I’m not wearing any underwear, which is business as usual. We’ve been living together for three, almost four years now, and I can still flip his switches just by forgetting my underwear in the morning. It’s one of the things I like best about him — right after his cooking.

“I don’t know. Maybe —”

His breathing’s getting on the heavy side. He takes off his coat, and it slides to the floor, and bingo! I do believe it’s time to start counting those chickens after all, because the only time Vecchio doesn’t stop to think about hanging up his clothes is when his dick’s running the show.

I lift up to push my jeans down past my hips, and then I take hold of my dick and wave it at him, because even when he shows up in a bad mood, I’m pretty happy to see him. Vecchio takes a step toward me, and I swipe my thumb across the head of my dick. When he doesn’t move, I lift my thumb and suck it clean.

He whimpers. It ain’t loud, and I can’t really hear it. But I can see it in the way his chest shifts and the way his tongue pops out to lick his lips. Vecchio should be hauling ass over to the couch to get his share, so I can’t figure out why he’s just standing there until I catch that look on his face. It’s that look that tells me I maybe started counting chickens too soon, because it means Vecchio wants me to convince him that sex is a better idea than a fight.

I know that sounds completely fucked up. If it were anyone else, I would agree, except that Vecchio’s Italian, so fighting for him is half a step from foreplay. I didn’t figure that one out until we’d been working together a few months.

He’d been pissy all day, and when the suspect got away because I was too busy trying to shove my glasses on my face, Vecchio laid into me. Not being the shy and retiring sort, I let him have it right back.

So there we were in some back alley, not a soul around while we screamed at each other in the middle of the night, and the next thing I know, Vecchio grabs me by the neck and hauls me in to shut me up — with his lips and tongue. Surprised the hell out of me, but not enough to keep me from enjoying it, because Vecchio kisses the way he fights — with fireworks.

But that was then, and this is now, and the meatloaf’s coming out of the oven in another twenty minutes, so it’s not like we’ve got time to do both. I shove my jeans all the way down this time and kick them off. Then I stick a couple of fingers in my mouth and slurp them up really good before shifting around.

Vecchio’s eyes are glazing over — he knows what I’m about to do, and I know I’m about to win this round hands down. So to speak. Once my fingers are good and wet, I move my hand down slow enough to give him a good show, slow enough to give him a chance to decide if maybe he wants his fingers in me instead of mine.

He doesn’t move, so I take care of myself, which isn’t exactly as easy as it sounds, especially when I’m aiming from the front instead of the back. I double up a little to get my one hand in good position, then I grab my dick again, and Jesus, that feels good. It’s not just that I’m touching myself; it’s having Vecchio watch while I do it. Fuck if I know when the hell that kink showed up, but it did, and I’m always happy to oblige when I’m in the mood.

Now _my_ eyes are starting to glaze over, and that’s when Vecchio realizes he’s about to miss out on the appetizer. He’s on his knees in front of me, pulling both my hands to the side before he sticks his face in my crotch and sucks my dick up.

“‘Bout time,” I mutter, trying to pull my wrists out of his grip. He doesn’t have a lot of hair, but I like to put my hands on what’s left, and he knows it. Anyway, he doesn’t let go. Instead, he gives me a hint of teeth, as a warning, then really goes to town. I’d bitch about him holding me in place, but my brain is starting to leak out of my dick.

Vecchio’s never been a laid-back kind of guy, and whether he’s sucking my dick or fucking me or making fresh pasta, he puts his whole attention to it. What that means is that up until he focused his attention and mouth on me the first time, I’d never come just from getting a blow job. These days, it’s all I can do to keep control long enough for it to last five minutes, because I start thinking about how damn good it feels to be in his mouth, his tongue working me like nobody’s business. Tonight, between his mouth and my brain, I make it to three minutes before I shoot off.

From the smirk on Vecchio’s face, I don’t think he minds too much.

*****

The meatloaf comes out of the oven looking kind of gray and gross, but that’s because I don’t like to cook it until the top is hard and crunchy. It only needs to be cooked all the way through, and I guess Vecchio agrees, because he never asks me to keep it in longer. He ain’t happy about the instant mashed potatoes or the canned corn, but I don’t give a rat’s ass.

When Vecchio cooks, he goes all out, and that’s great — I appreciate the effort he goes to. But sometimes, I want something simple and easy, everything coming together without a lot of fuss yet tasting great all the same.

Kind of like me and Vecchio, most of the time.


End file.
